


T'ad nayc or'atu (Two No More) - Precursor to "Magnetic"

by Something_to_fight_for



Series: Magnetic-verse [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Baby Yoda - Freeform, Din Djarin - Freeform, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Gen, Grogu - Freeform, The Mandalorian (TV) Spoilers, The Mandalorian Season 2, din djarin fic, din djarin story, post Chapter 16, star wars fic, the mandalorian - Freeform, the mandalorian fic, the mandalorian star wars, the mandalorian story, the mandalorian the rescue, the mandalorian: magnetic, two no more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28588686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Something_to_fight_for/pseuds/Something_to_fight_for
Summary: The Mandalorian’s got a lot of things on his mind. Some are things he’s known for years, and others … well, they’re much more recent discoveries.
Relationships: the mandalorian x his thoughts
Series: Magnetic-verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2172870
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	T'ad nayc or'atu (Two No More) - Precursor to "Magnetic"

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing something for a fandom that doesn’t involve a Ben Barnes character. I’ve been unable to stop thinking about The Mandalorian’s season finale since it aired … and this is the result. I kept myself to a limited word count because I didn’t want to drag it out, but I overshot that by 700 words, so…
> 
> I have something else in the works for him, too… and I’m not limiting my word count on that one.
> 
> This takes place immediately (within a few hours) after the finale - and it contains spoilers from both seasons of The Mandalorian - so if you’re not caught up, you don’t want to read this.

He has nothing now. 

Nothing but the endless expanse of space, stretching out as far as he can see. 

No ship. No _purpose_. No task to complete. No real reason to choose a specific destination, set the coordinates, and _wait_ for whatever happens next, his eyes on the stars.   
  
But most of all, _nothing_ means no quiet coos or sighs in the dark, no tiny hands grabbing for his cape or his helmet, no need to turn his head slightly to the right, one hand reaching out for the small sphere to slowly twist it back into place atop the threaded end of the Razor Crest’s shifter. 

For the first time in _years,_ The Mandalorian has _nothing_ driving him forward and urging him into action - and it’s shaken him to his core. 

His shoulders slump, though he isn’t wearing any of the armor he’s come to consider an extension of himself. His head hangs toward his chest, but it’s bare of the helmet that he’s kept on for the vast majority of his life. He can still feel those small fingers gently making contact with the skin against his jaw and cheek, though they’re replaced with his own now; bare and gloveless, as he cradles his own cheeks, as if keeping them there makes a _difference_. 

It was the first time anyone - any _thing_ had touched his face since he was a child, and the Mandalorian was barely able to keep it together while it happened on the light cruiser’s well-lit bridge. 

Hours later? It’s impossible. He’s locked away in the cockpit of the small freighter he took from Moff Gideon’s light cruiser, hunched over in the pilot’s chair - and he is alone. 

Cara won the argument over who got to take Gideon in; setting off toward Nevarro in the cruiser while Bo-Katan and Koska, Fennec and Fett went their separate ways. He doesn’t know - or care - who went where. The Mandalorian only concerned himself with replacing his helmet once the doors closed behind Grogu and the Jedi, the bridge as silent as could be as the man turned to face his allies - and Gideon. 

From there, he set out to find a way off the ship, letting the others take care of the necessary arrangements. There was no reward to collect - Gideon’s capture, the destruction of the dark troopers, the seizure of a fully equipped light cruiser - all of those things _should_ have been rewards in themselves, a bounty to turn in, credits and prestige to collect, a relief, but the Mandalorian felt _nothing_ thinking of them, his thoughts consumed by feeling as though somehow, despite the fact that he was largely physically unharmed, he was on the losing end of the most important battle of his life.

For as long as he can remember, he’s always had a _purpose;_ direction leading him to his next quarry, the next location - _meaning_ to an otherwise disjointed and difficult existence. It’s one that he knows, and knows well. 

In fact, it’s _all_ he knows. The creation of structure from nothing. Foundling to full-fledged member of The Tribe. No one to a feared Guild bounty hunter. It is The Way, but it’s also _his_ way - or at least it was. 

He has nothing now, but that wasn’t always the case. 

The Asset. The Child. The package. The Kid. _Grogu._ In such a short time, the Mandalorian’s entire worldview changed; expanding from the way of life he’d known and accepted to something different, something more _._

Something meaningful. 

It happened slowly at first; gratitude for the help with the Mudhorn. Frustration at the way his small, wide-eyed companion was so curious about everything, slowing him down - and at the same time, hurrying him; the prospect of such a large reward motivating the Mandalorian to return to Nevarro, turn in the quarry and continue on. Simple. Routine.

But unlike the hundreds of other assignments he was given, palm sized pucks passed over the smooth surface of the cantina tabletop, this quarry wasn’t simple. 

He’ll never forgive himself for turning the tiny creature back over to The Client. _Ever,_ even though he knows that he’s long been forgiven by the only person that matters. He’ll never understand how that’s possible - how, after nearly being responsible for a continued lifetime of torture and seclusion - and probably a slow and painful death - he had a chance to redeem himself in the eyes of the Child - and, maybe in his own mind at the same time. 

At first, he didn’t understand why he even took the chance, why he pushed his entire belief system to the side for that specific bounty and no others before it.

Gratitude and frustration slowly changed into concern and contemplation, the Mandalorian thinking only about ensuring the large egg-shaped carrier stayed with him no matter what, or making allowances to keep the Child safe and close by at all times, even to his own detriment - and in a few cases, immense danger for the both of them. 

Trust takes time, but when you don’t _have_ time, what option is there? He survived for years on pure instinct - an ability to think and act _exactly_ when necessary, to get things _done,_ to guess what was coming and prepare for it _._ Self preservation was key, but at some point, that need for self preservation shifted - the Mandalorian wasn’t only concerned for himself and his own well-being; he had to consider the Kid’s, too. 

Mandalorians don’t have friends or attachments _-_ at least _he_ didn’t, but the insertion of the Child into his life changed that, too. It made the impossible seem possible, caused the silence and solitude of deep space to feel much less isolated. He wouldn’t admit it, but having a constant companion was something that the Mandalorian grew used to in the months that he cared for the Kid.

He feels dampness on his cheeks beneath his fingers. Whether he’s currently crying or it’s remnants from earlier, he’s not sure. He knows the Armorer and the rest of the Tribe would be outraged to see him - a shell of himself, devoid of the armor and prestige that he’s earned throughout the years as a Child of the Watch and a member of the Tribe and then the Guild. In this moment, he’s nothing more than a man, one of trillions in the galaxy. 

Has he shown anyone his face? **Yes**. Has anyone ever removed his helmet? **Yes.** Because the Mandalorian is someone - and _he_ removed it twice himself. Once, out of necessity - the other time at the wordless request of the only thing in the galaxy he’d ever value more than his own code of honor.

Grogu. Not the Asset. Not the Child. Not the package. Not the Kid. _Grogu._ His kin. 

Even thinking the name brings on a fresh pang in his battered chest. His skin is littered in bruises from the fight with the single dark trooper; it’s a miracle his helmet wasn’t crushed from the force of the repeated blows. His body aches from dueling Gideon, the sleepy little boy awaiting the final outcome from his perch on the bench in the other room, the Mandalorian doing everything in his power to keep him safe and secure while fighting for freedom - and for both of their lives. 

But none of it matters; the wounds will heal, the bruising and scrapes will fade. They always do. But until they’re gone, they’ll remind the Mandalorian of what he had, what he fought for, and what he lost. 

Aliit ori'shya tal'din. _Family is more than blood._

He thought he understood what that meant - growing up the way he did, but the Mandalorian never truly _knew_ what a connection with someone was before Grogu. It was more than wanting to look after him; it was the need to understand him, the desire to protect him, find him someone _like_ him, someone that understood him and what he needed to take control of his power - at any cost. Following the Creed - _his_ personal creed - but in a way that wasn’t only about justice or brute force. 

Or so he thought. 

He has nothing left, but it’s about more than having no current purpose, more than not having _his_ ship. He can still hear the Armorer’s words, telling him that he is as the Child’s father, that their destinies are no longer separate. 

**A clan of two.** He sees the signet on his pauldron now as it rests on the floor of the cockpit, glinting in the low light as he stares at it through his fingers. Each day, that declaration became more real to him. The bounties, the missions, the journeys - they were all leading somewhere, and even though the Mandalorian knew his given task, he’s willing to admit that part of him never really believed he’d find the other Mandalorians, let alone Jedi … or Grogu’s kind. 

And, finally lifting his head slightly, the Mandalorian realizes that that same part of him didn’t want to. It goes against the Creed, it goes against his teachings, but it’s the truth - and if there’s one thing that he’s known for that has nothing to do with his reputation of never failing to bring in a bounty, it’s speaking the truth. 

He told the truth to Greef and Cara. To Omera - even to Cobb and Peli, his voice always modulated but no less strong and certain. Only Grogu ever heard him waver, the Child teetering on the edge of sleep in the tiny compartment on the Crest as the Mandalorian prepared him for a new life with Ahsoka. 

But the Jedi’s refusal to train him, her unwillingness to even _try_ , despite Grogu’s obvious abilities gave the Mandalorian pause. What happened after is little more than a blur to him. 

He remembers joking with Grogu about “Jedi things” as they climbed the Tython mountainside, remembers the fear he felt, deep in his chest at the initial glimpse of Fett’s ship, the anguish that began building with the appearance of the first assault ship and his inability to penetrate the force field that surrounded Grogu’s vulnerable body, no matter how many times he tried. 

But none of it compared to the way it felt seeing his son clutched in the black arms of the dark troopers, speeding back up into the atmosphere. Throughout all of his years, the Mandalorian had never experienced that type of fear or devastation. By the time Mayfeld was on board with the plan, the Mandalorian was almost on autopilot; repeating that he wouldn’t be showing his face to save the boy, but knowing - deep down - that it would likely come to that.  
  
And he didn’t hesitate, lifting his helmet in the presence of other living things for the first time in decades, getting the necessary information and then enduring what came next, heart beating a thunderous rhythm behind his ribs the entire time he was exposed. Sending the message to Gideon had made him feel better, but it still wasn’t enough. Using the man’s words against him felt **good** to the Mandalorian - it felt right. But words aren’t actions - and so he’d done what was necessary _again_ before setting out for the cruiser. 

Even those thoughts weren’t as clear in his mind as things became the first time he’d seen Grogu again - handcuffed and sitting on the bench in the hold, sleepy eyed and visibly exhausted - but perking up at the sight of him. 

The Mandalorian couldn’t ever remember feeling such relief, the emotion growing as he gently lifted him to his chest and turned toward the door. Taking Gideon down hadn’t been about _winning_ , it was about making the man pay for the singular most important crime that he’d committed: tearing the Mandalorian’s clan apart, even for a short time. 

The first time, their parting was the Mandalorian’s choice. The second? His fault for being too slow by just a few seconds.  
  
The third? 

The Mandalorian’s cry of anguish fills the confined space, the man finally rising from the chair and lifting his right arm to strike the inside wall of the ship with his fist, bare knuckles instantly aching from contact with the metal. There’s no cushion from his gloves; no armor or padding on his arms to absorb any of the impact’s shock. The pain is there, adding to everything else, and it’s more than dull. 

But he wants to feel it. He needs to feel it.  
  
Because the third separation is the one that hurts the most - and yet it’s the one that _needed_ to happen. 

He knows this. Knows that it was his destiny to reunite Grogu with his own kind, people that can understand him, train him, help him become stronger. They can keep him safe. That’s _their_ way, the Jedi way. He knows this, but it doesn’t make things any easier, or cause the still-blooming ache he feels to subside. 

The Mandalorian straightens up and inhales as deeply as he can; chest expanding without the weight and shape of the beskar restricting it. He closes his eyes and remembers the last glimpse of Grogu; huge brown eyes peeking over a black-caped shoulder as the hold doors slid shut. _That’s who you belong with._

He said the words, staring into those eyes and willing the tiny, warm thing in his hands to understand - he wasn’t giving him up or abandoning him. He wasn’t trying to pawn off his responsibilities. He didn’t _want_ to say goodbye. No, he was doing exactly what he’d spent many previous decades avoiding - putting the needs and interests of someone else before his own for the greater good. Doing what was best for someone he loves.

As the Mandalorian looks through the front viewport of his temporary vessel, he takes another deep breath, letting it out in a shaky exhale. His fingers curl around the edge of the console, gripping it so tightly that his joints creak, but he doesn’t care. This is the Way. 

Space is silent and dark. It’s endless and full of possibility. The Mandalorian knows that he knows almost _nothing_ about the true extent of it. His bounties have limited him to the Outer Rim territories for most of his life, and it will likely stay that way. 

If he were to tell anyone that he had nothing, they would disagree. 

He’s got his life. He’s got his armor and weapons - beskar forged in capable hands, meant to last generations, his trusty blaster, and his newly acquired spear. He’s got people he can count on - Cara and Greef, Cobb Vanth and Fennec and Boba Fett. Peli - ornery to her core but her loyalty as certain as each day’s double sunrise on Tatooine. 

He’s got newfound and unwanted responsibility; the hilt of the Darksaber hanging heavy at his hip. With Gideon out of the way, there’s no more running - no need to planet hop, never staying out of hyperspace for too long. He has freedom. _That’s_ new for him, and something he hasn’t yet had the time to consider fully. 

He’s got his memories, the feelings he let bubble to the surface during his time with Grogu unable to be shut away. The Mandalorian spent so long alone that it took time - too much time - to open up to the small creature, but now that he has? He won’t ever close himself off so wholly again. The Creed says that once a Mandalorian’s helmet is removed and his identity is no longer a secret, there’s no going back - but for _this_ Mandalorian, that won’t be the case. 

He can’t lie about it - and he won’t, if asked. Because the Mandalorian also has his word, and his word is his bond. The Mandalorian says what he means, and means what he says, no matter the situation. Eyes widening and lips parting, his right hand releases the console and reaches into his pocket, fingers curling around the small metal ball he carries there - the only physical remnant of the Razor Crest he has left. 

He has nothing _now,_ but there was a time when he had everything without ever realizing it - and that time will come again. He’s sure of it. 

It only takes a few seconds to twist off the ridged knob on the shifter in front of the co-pilot’s seat, replacing it with the smooth, curved piece of durasteel. Glancing down at it, the Mandalorian’s lips twitch into a quick smile before his eyes close, and he gives a single nod to the empty space surrounding him. 

**“I promised.”**

—- 


End file.
